Strays (Poetry)

I thought of him in the early hours
long before dawn —
me, restless and vaguely haunted, keeping warm
beneath the duvet,
imagining how the pavement felt —
the hard stone chill that cannot give
an inch of comfort
and curled in some dingy backstreet doorway
locked against his back.

Through the dark I heard
the pitter-pat of guilt stalking me,
whispering sly —
if he had been a kitten,
some abandoned big-eyed scrap of mangy fur,
I’d have rescued him —
or someone would —
but he was just a down-and-out,
dirty-looking, slumped, head bowed,
the cardboard notice read
HOMELESS AND HUNGRY
so, many glanced then hurried by,
not even adding to the few coins in his hat.

And now, too late, I worry —
sleepless, wondering if I
could have made a difference to his life —
done something simply kind —
offered to buy a cup of tea or soup.
But I wasn’t brave enough to stop
or that concerned I’d take the risk...
risk what, exactly?
Involvement? Facing a cruel reality?
Much safer, then, to write a cheque for charity
than help a stranger begging on the street
or take a stray (and maybe mad) dog home.